A Day is Long
by ms metaphor
Summary: “She wonders if she will even make it down the aisle. It’s terribly long. It will take her days, maybe years. She just might faint.” SiriusLily. Part Three of “The Heart’s Progress”, a series of vignettes based on the poetry of Pablo Neruda.


**_A Day is Long_**

by ms. metaphor

**Rating:** PG-13 (Swearing)

**Pairing: **Sirius/Lily

**Genre:** Romance/Angst

**Summary:** "Tomorrow, the doors will open and the people will rise and you will see me standing next to James. And I will look you and smile. And you will walk down that aisle one step at a time. And you will know that this is right." Part Three of **_The Heart's Progress, _**a series of vignettes inspired by the poetry of Pablo Neruda.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sirius or Lily. They belong to J. K. Rowling, along with everything else of Harry Potter cannon. And no, I'm not making any money here. Title and excerpts taken from Sonnet XLV, by Pablo Neruda, translated by Stephen Tapscott.

**Author's Note:** I was originally going to end this little series of vignettes with this third part, but I've already written a fourth part. I just couldn't leave Sirius and Lily in such disquiet. So, should I post it, or no?

* * *

_Don't go far off, not even for a day, because_—

_because_—_I don't know how to say it: a day is long_

_and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station_

_when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep._

_Don't leave me, even for an hour, because_

_then the little drops of anguish will all run together,_

_the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift_

_into me, choking my lost heart.__

* * *

_

On the eve of her wedding, she lays out her dress, heels, veil, delicate undergarments, a string of pearls. Lace and silk, simple and breathtaking. She stands in the mirror, picturing herself at the back of the aisle as the spectators rise and gasp.

Perfect.

But the man at the end of the aisle—she cannot see his face.

It hits her like a violent breaker. She closes her eyes and tries very, very hard. Nevertheless, he's simply too far away. She wonders, still looking at the back of her eyelids, if she will even make it down the aisle. It's terribly long; it will take her days, maybe years. She just might faint.

On a nearby chair, she shrivels like a dead flower. The problem is there's only one face she sees, and it will not go away. The problem is she loves two men, and there's nothing she can do.

And if this is love, it reminds her an awful lot of the stomach flu. She wishes she could vomit—figuratively speaking.

Stumbling over to the hearth, she kneels and tosses in a handful of ash. A few seconds pass, then a face appears. She smiles, or tries to, and whispers, "Darling." Her voice chafes coming out, as if it actively resists service.

The man in the fire frowns. "Lily, are you—" Pausing, he presses his lips together. "I'll be right over, love."

In a minute he is before her, but before he can move, she seizes his biceps, buries her head in his chest. Suddenly: everything is okay. "Sirius… darling… You shouldn't be here, but I don't care."

"I always do what I shouldn't. 's part of my charm."

"Arrogant prat."

"Am not."

She manages a weak laugh. "Are too."

He thinks. "Yeah, it's true." A giggle in her throat. "The golden rule of appeasing women-kind: 'yes, dear.' If she is right, then of course she is right. When in doubt, she is always right. If, by some singularity, she is wrong, why then, she is still right."

Her shoulders shake against his chest. "Cheeky bastard."

"Yes, dear."

But she is not his _dear_. He did not ask to be, so she could not say yes. Instead, tomorrow's nuptials join Lily Evans to James Potter in holy matrimony, and it's

all.

his.

fault.

She considers yelling at him, pounding his chest, making him _hurt_, because she certainly hurts like hell.

"I think I'm mad at you," she croaks out.

Still holding her to him, he ducks his head, trying to see her face. She turns away, but he grabs her chin and turns her face back to him. "Lily…" She shuts her eyes. He understands what she won't say. She is refusing to look at him. "_Love._" Her eyes snap open. In the firelight he spots tears spilling down her face.

A small sob. "_Don't_ call me that."

Judging by his expression, he is indeed hurt.

"I'm not your love. It's all your fault, Sirius Black. For once, can't you be the dishonorable jerk you pretend to be? Can you just… _forget_ that I _belong_ to James? Can't I just be my own, just once? Can't you just—just—"

"And if I did, would you still love me?"

There. He said it. She loves him. He put it out there, in words, so they can't pretend anymore.

"Would you still love me if I let you break his heart? Would you still love me if I was that guy who stole his best mate's girl? Would you still love if I let you make the biggest mistake of your life? Would you still love me if I broke a promise as sacred as any marriage vow? Would you still love me if I let you leave the man you should marry, knowing full well I'll never marry you? Would you still love me if you grew old with no husband and no children and no chance to have the life you always wanted? Would you love me then? Would you? Ask yourself, Lily. Would you still love me if I let you leave the father of your unborn child? Would you still love me if he grew up fatherless? Would you?"

She shoves him away. Wraps her arms around herself, trembling.

"What do you know about my love!" she spits out. "What do you know anyway? You're so busy being an Unspeakable, fighting the forces of darkness, being a _hero_, being _James'_ friend, being Sirius-the-lady-killer-Black, so _what the hell do you know!"_

He cringes. "Lil, I—"

"No! You listen to me. I'm mad at you! I'm bloody furious at you! I don't _care_ about James' broken heart. I don't care if you're the jerk that stole his best friend's fiancé. I don't care if you let me leave the man I should've married or if you break your 'sacred' promise or if I end up a lonely, old spinster! Don't you get it? _I don't care!_ All I care about is that tomorrow I'm supposed to marry James Potter, but I'll never make it down the aisle, because all I can think about is Sirius Black. So your sensible arguments are lovely and all, but they're going to mean zilch when I run from the church like a bat out of hell!"

She's yelling at the top of her lungs, flinging her arms around, sputtering and rambling and purging herself. Now that she's on a role, it feels good. She doesn't want to stop.

"Do you know what happens tomorrow? Tomorrow I run and disgrace James and break his heart forever and curse my unborn child with a fatherless life. Or maybe I marry him. Lily Potter, pretty wife of James Potter. Mother of his precious son, or daughter. Then that's who I am. And a part of me dies. Do you know what part that is? The part that should go to you. The part that wants to go you. The part you deserve. No—no, you do deserve it. You won it fairly. Oh, I know you never _meant_ to compete for it, but that doesn't change anything. I let that part go a long time ago and it went to you and I can't get it back and if I let you go, it dies. I'm—Sirius, I can't—I'm trying to say, I'm not strong enough. I'll fall apart. I won't know how to exist. I'm not—I'm not _strong_ enough, and—and—and… "

Her voice fades. Her whole body seems to fade, right in front of him, as she hides her face in her hands.

"Love."

He means it.

He crouches and takes her hands. She feels that familiar surge of joy, triggered only by his touch. "Tomorrow, the doors will open and the people will rise and you will see me standing next to James. And I will look you and smile. And probably cry. And you will walk down that aisle one step at a time. You will know, when I look at you, that this is right. You will think of your child and your own future. You will know that James Potter is a good man. I will look at you, and you will know that this is right."

A stretch of silence. She hiccups, glaring at him while he snickers.

He pulls her up and guides her outside. It was a dreary day. Now that night has fallen, the clouds have broke, pouring cool sheets of water. On her back porch, they gaze out at the sky, the haze of rain. He wraps his arms around her from behind. She leans her head on his shoulder. They breathe together.

"Remember that time we played in the rain? Just after Hogwarts. It was really late at night and you apparated into my bedroom and I shrieked when you woke me up. You dragged me outside in my pyjamas and I wasn't wearing any shoes. You made me run around in the street."

His quiet laughter floats over her head. "And you cut your foot on a stone. It bled all over the place. I felt so bad."

"Yeah. You kept apologizing and I let you feel guilty. But, darling… it was the best time I ever had."

Grinning wildly, he pulls away and grabs her wrist. "Well, then, what are we waiting for?"

They run off the porch, into the old street, where leftover leaves are heaped in small, wet piles and the pavement is cracked and coarse. They tug off their shoes and toss them mindlessly away. It feels so good not to think. She skips around him in a circle as he stares. She wants to say: this is what he has made her become. This is exactly how she feels. She wants to thank him.

He whirls her by the waist. Her arms circle his neck. They both refuse to think.

He kisses her.

Light explodes before her closed eyes. Fire spirals through her veins, flooding her head and her heart, making her utterly dizzy. Her knees give out, maybe. She's not sure, because he's holding her up. It stretches on and on, building till she's ready—willing—to never breathe again.

Panting. They're both desperate for air. And neither has forgotten what she didn't say.

And kisses in the rain.

He tucks her head under his chin. He doesn't say _it_, though it costs him every scrap of self-control to be silent.

She wants more: more and all of him, right now. But, he is right to hold back. If they don't stop now, there will be no stopping at all.

Minutes, or maybe hours, pass. She has no sense of time left. He takes her inside and wraps her in a clean towel. He tweaks her nose and smiles slightly. He says he really should leave. A peck on the forehead. His lips linger a moment longer than they should.

She ushers him to the door. He's going to walk home tonight. At times he likes to walk rather than apparate or Floo or fly. He says it clears his head. Does him good. She can tell he needs it tonight.

"G'night, darling."

He halts in the doorway, looks her in the eye, tangles one hand in her fire-red hair. He is crying.

"See ya later, love."

For the first time, she sees that a part of him will die too.

She whispers back, "Always."

He jogs out into the rain, and she does not stop him.

* * *

On the dawn of her wedding, she puts on her dress, heels, veil, delicate undergarments, a string of pearls. Her hair is pinned up loosely. Simple and breathtaking. 

The clock strikes twelve and the doors open. The spectators rise, but she, clutching her cluster of lilies, is frozen fast.

At the end of the aisle, there is a man—there is a real, whole smile on his face.

One step at a time, he said.

So that's what she does. For herself and her unborn baby, she walks slowly, bravely. The closer she gets, the more she sees that the other man, the groom, positively glows. He _is _a good man. She can trust him, and he will be very good to her. It doesn't matter that her heart is in pieces. This is right.

No, not perfect. But right.

* * *

_Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,_

_because in that moment you'll have gone so far_

_I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,_

Will you come back? Will you leave me here dying?

* * *

**Finis**


End file.
